


Sweet Like Candy To My Soul

by elfladyarwen



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Bright is actually happy, Candy, Established Relationship, Everyone is deliriously happy somehow, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Gil is happy, M/M, Older Man/Younger Man, Soft Malcolm Bright, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, it's sickening
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 22:22:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29461227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elfladyarwen/pseuds/elfladyarwen
Summary: If you ask Gil, the finest and most delicate part of loving Malcolm Bright is providing him with the affection he doesn't think he deserves.AKA Gil uses candy as a love language and Malcolm reads him loud and clear.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo/Malcolm Bright
Comments: 6
Kudos: 32





	Sweet Like Candy To My Soul

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt was "Gil buys Malcolm candy" and then this *gestures at everything* happened, I don't know. Just some Broyo fluff drabble that got me feeling some kind of way.

It had taken trips to three separate candy stores until he found one that carried the treasure he was after. 

Old fashioned licorice was prevalent in any dime-a-dozen confectionery. But it had taken a trip up to Kingsbridge to find twists beyond the standard black and red uniform. This wasn’t an occasion for predictable consistency. Gil was after the exceptional. 

Not for any special occasion. Or need for overly romantic gestures. It was merely the whips being the singular source of the kid’s breakfast, so a fast restock had taken precedence on Gil’s to-do list. 

He’d paid the small fortune they wanted for a bag of designer licorice and headed to the precinct, stopping to pick up a cheap bodega coffee for himself. He wondered if Bright had eaten anything yet today. He’d missed the kid’s early departure this morning, too exhausted to note the lack of warmth until he’d rolled over and found nothing but the memory of an imprint on the pillow next to him. 

He stalks straight to his office, a charade of his usual no-nonsense arrival, hangs up his overcoat and scarf and rummages for a few minutes to convey a sense of business. He eventually pops his head outside, calls to the younger man talking with his hands exuberantly at Gil’s best detective.

“Bright. I need to see you in my office. Now.” 

The profiler ducks his head in apology to Dani and starts a sheepish trek down the hall. He’s already in the doorway by the time Gil’s made it to the desk and perched sternly on the corner. Malcolm slicks wayward swatches of downy hair from his face, straightens his tie as if looking presentable is a requirement to take counsel with the lieutenant. 

He thinks he’s so damn funny. It takes monumental control for Gil not to roll his eyes. 

“What’s up, Boss? If you’re looking to pin that missing tattoo gun from evidence on somebody, it wasn't entirely me. Edrisa needed to know the rate of epidermal sloughing after ink introduction and I just...offered my assistance.” 

Gil uncrosses his arms, scrubs at his mouth to hide the exasperated smile and motions him fully inside. “Get in here. And shut the damn door.” 

Malcolm obeys, coughing around his laugh. He shoots Gil a questioning brow, his hand on the lock. 

Gil nods and gestures him over with the crook of a finger. “I told you not to call me that anymore. It’s a conflict of interest.” 

Looking only moderately chagrined, Malcolm lifts a shoulder in an elegant shrug. He waltzes closer, checking the state of the window blinds before he draws too close. There’s sufficient privacy for him to risk an appraising once over of the feline recline Gil makes on the desk. He makes no effort at all to be discreet with his stare, nibbling the swell of his lower lip as he dances into Gil’s personal space bubble without shame. 

“What would you prefer instead?” he asks, teasingly. “Main Squeeze? My Moon And Stars? Lover Divine? Papi?”

Gil’s sigh is long suffering and this time his eye roll is all but audible. “Well not in public, that’s for damn sure.” 

Malcolm grins. “Noted. But I’m taking the liberty of making an asterisk that says ‘Available for all Non Precinct public.’ I like having a cornucopia of options.”

The bag of sweets gets tossed at him a bit harder then Gil had intended and he grunts, fumbling as the plastic ricochets off his chest. 

“Not sure you deserve that now,” Gil deadpans. 

Malcolm brings the bag up to his eye line, turning it this way and that as he deciphers it’s contents. His eyes light up, the manic glee pinpointing and honing in to shine solely on Gil. 

_ This. _ This is why he goes to such ardent lengths for such surprises. To be a lighthouse in Bright’s hurricane world, to calm the choppy waters of those blue eyes into doldrums where Gil is the only breeze. It’s humbling and empowering in a way he can’t describe. Like loving a tsunami hard enough to make it pause it’s whirlwind of destruction long enough to spare the rocks below your feet. 

“You noticed I was running low,” Bright breathes, face shining. 

Gil’s heart feels two sizes too small for his chest. It pushes at the back of his ribs, warm and vibrating as it does when he’s the cause of the kid’s smile. 

“Not bad for plain old fashioned detective work, huh?” 

A pleased flush blossoms along the crest of Malcolm’s cheekbones. He cradles the cellophane bag with the timid reverence of a man being handed something ancient and holy. The tinsel tie guarding the sweets inside is discarded with deft fingers and the tip of his tongue emerges as he starts to rummage through the array of colors. 

Gil cocks his head, watches the careful inventory and savors the afterglow of lighting Bright up from the inside out. It’s a privilege to bear witness to his joy - such a rare and fleeting event. His experiences with the sensation have been so few and far between. 

It seems at times an Atlas-like task to remedy. 

He’s doing better, his catalogue of Things Bright Needs But Won’t Ask For getting thicker and thicker by the day. It had started slow and painstakingly awkward, the transition from father figure to something more potent and true a knife’s edge neither of them had known how to tread. It had taken time and terrifying inner reflection on both their parts to acknowledge that emotions like lust and longing could be stockpiled onto an existing relationship without razing it to the ground. That a touch to the arm could be both comforting  _ and _ inviting. That the suggestion of a kiss should be met with excitement instead of shame and dread. 

Bright, in true fashion, had resigned himself to suffer in silence, content with never braving deeper waters. Better to float in the warm shallows then risk drowning. He had (incorrectly) assumed he was the only one game to swim and Gil had been the one who’d had to leap overboard without a life vest in hopes the kid might buoy instead of drown him. It had been Gil who promised Malcolm that should he leap too, he would always, always be caught. Since then, they’d waded through the uncharted currents of friends to lovers, hand in hand. Fear with fear. Gil has no desire to ever dry out. He’ll die in the slipstream, pulled into the undertow of Bright’s whirlpool existence and be grateful for it. 

“Here. You want one?” Malcolm pops an obnoxiously yellow twist into his mouth, lets it dangle provocatively between his lips. He waggles a flirtatious brow, daring Gil to claim his share. 

When Gil doesn’t move from his unimpressed position on the desk, Malcolm leans in, flopping the candy about with his tongue as he chews off one end. “Come on, try it!” he goads. “S’good, s’pineapple. Nice and sweet.” 

He’s happy, Gil realizes. The younger man’s emotional spectrum yo-yos between despair and mania and there’s a silk-spun hair’s breadth that separates the latter from true elation. It’s taken years of careful attention for him to spot the difference. He sees it more often now then before they flooded over into romantic territory. It’s a point of great pride, that he can bring this boyish giddiness, genuine and luminous, to the forefront of this man’s delicate psyche. 

It is the only honest scale of his success as a partner. Not the way Bright seeks his steadying touch when his mind rebels and reality becomes entirely dependent on the steadfast band of Gil’s arm. Not the way he can bring the boy to a sobbing, incoherent mess with three trigger-point fingers, his trembling body a tightly wound violin string Gil has learned to play like concerto. Not in the way Bright no longer attempts to dam up his inner demons, spilling them like exorcisms into the solid breadth of Gil’s chest on nights the terrors come with claws too swift and too frequent. 

_ My touchstone. That’s what you are, Gil. Always have been.  _

He shuffles a step closer, ridiculous candy wagging from his mouth, mirth dancing in his eyes and Gil is struck breathless with how beautiful he is like this. At his doing. Because he’s accepted the Promethean challenge of trying to make Malcolm Bright happy. 

The younger man gasps, his pupils blowing out, as Gil snakes out and grabs him by the belt loops. Tucks him firmly into the v of his legs, so rapid-flash quick, Malcolm is forced to brace himself on the span of Gil’s shoulders to avoid toppling them both to the floor. 

Gil bites along the candy’s width until he reaches the treat he’s after, seals his mouth over sticky soft lips that curve upward in a delicious laugh. He licks the grin and the sugar off Malcolm’s tongue, swallows down the soft moan he earns deepening the kiss. He feels fingers carding through his hair and the young man’s trim frame melts without hesitation into the circle of his arms. Leans in, presses the thready flutter of his heartbeat against Gil’s. Trusting. Surrendering. 

_ My accidental love.  _ You  _ are everything. Don’t you know? _

Gil kisses him until the licorice dissolves. Until the taste of Bright overpowers spice and fruit and every other flavor he ever cares to remember. Kisses him senseless, until there’s no chance of a smart ass retort or of the kid getting through the rest of the day without getting hot and bothered when Gil winks at him. When he at last draws back, Malcolm’s eyes are glassed over, his expression soft and dreamy. 

“I have something sweeter.” He peppers whisper-soft kisses to the younger man’s lower lip, then his upper lip and repeats. Bright beams up at him and it’s like seeing the sun rise over an ocean calm. Almost garish in its luster, but Gil will be struck blind before he looks away. 

“Now go on,” he says, punctuating his dismissal with a light slap to the younger man’s pert ass. “And don’t eat all those before dinner. I’m making stir fry.” 

Bright makes a face, but tilts his head in a nod of acceptance. It means he’ll at least try whatever Gil plates before him. Out of affection and with much protest. 

“We watching that new documentary on murder hornets tonight?” he asks, selecting a mismatched couple of licorice whips from the bag before cramming the remainder in his jacket pocket. It bulges comically, ruining his sleek silhouette, making his four thousand dollar suit look like a costume he’s borrowed to play dress up. 

Gil’s smile is fond. “Sure, kid. Whatever you want.” He means it, he’s never taken a more serious vow. He’ll beg, borrow and steal what he must to make sure this man has everything he could possibly want. Murders to solve. Toe-curling orgasms. A champion to drive away the nightmares. A steady supply of candy for breakfast. 

Malcolm looks up, his face breaking wide in delight as a eureka moment strikes. 

“Does this make you my sugar daddy now?” he grins. 

Gil huffs a pained sigh and thrusts a finger toward the door. 

“Get out.” 

Malcolm laughs and laughs until his beautiful eyes sheen with tears and Gil wonders if it’s possible to die from loving another human being too much.

He catches the kiss blown to him around a fresh blue raspberry twizzler and shakes his head, watching his love skip out the door, candy jingling in his pocket and Gil’s poor heart on his Tom Ford sleeve. 

  
  



End file.
